The Montauk Affair
by Musafreen
Summary: Sally/Poseidon, started out trying to be as canon as possible. Nevertheless managed to involve a toothless old man and Amphitrite. Now stuck in a continuity rut. Read at your own peril.
1. Trident

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**Trident**

_(the embarassingly short prologue)_

* * *

"You're carrying a trident!"

Sally Jackson had no clear idea what had made her shout that out. Maybe it was little more than two decades of seeing things nobody else ever saw. Maybe it was uncle Edwards' death messing up her brain. Possibly, all her life she'd been living a hallucination, and this was another one of those.

As far as hallucinations went, this was one of the better ones. A handsome man holding a bronze shaft about as high as he was, a quizzical expression on his face as he studied her. Sally had once encountered a seven-headed dragonish thing which spat acid and smelled revolting, so even though the trident points looked like knife edges and green light eerily shimmered around them, she wasn't feeling particularly scared.

"Really?" He asked, sounding slightly amused. "I thought it was a surfboard."

"Um, no. It's a trident." Sally said, but the moment was gone. Her voice was hesitant, and somewhat further from the shout level than before. Someone around her said something about straitjackets. Someone else giggled.

And it happened again. Sally Jackson blushed, ducking her head. Momentary insanity created a lot of problems during its' brief existences. You'd think she'd at least have learnt to control it after all these years.

She took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry about that. I just- lost my mind for a moment." She made herself look at the man. "It's definitely a surfboard."

The points shimmered. Green tendrils arm-wrestling with the air around them.

"Definitely." She repeated weakly.

The man was grinning now, and obviously checking her out. Sally blushed again, made excuses and left. She didn't look back till she'd reached her cabin.

Calling it a cabin was euphemistic, even if the cabin you had in mind was a rusty shack in the middle of nowhere. The floorboards were nonexistent for the most part, and mouldy when they were there. Families of sea breezes dropped in through the half-broken window to say hello. The door could have, _maybe_, withstood a violent assault from a four year old, and creaked out innovative symphonies when left open. The bed joined its' concerto on occasion. Someone could have appreciated their efforts if they got past the dampness and the smell of salt hanging around stubbornly in the air.

It _was _affordable, though.

Sally carefully closed the door (_creak_) and sat on the bed (_creeeak_), which was slightly more comfortable than the chair. And that was about it for the furnishings. Her bag contained everything she owned in the world, apart from a few ancient pieces of furniture her uncle had left her. The only thing in it of any value was her pen, a birthday present from happier times. The only other thing she really cared about was her diary, and the papers stuffed into it.

_Dreams shatter Sal_, she told herself, suppressing whatever feelings of bitterness that cropped up on glancing at the diary. _But they can be mended._

Or so she kept telling herself.


	2. Midnight

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Midnight

_(the one where Sally throws things)_

* * *

"_I do not claim to understand you." _

_The speaker was the kind of woman most doomed, but eventually lucky, sailors had hallucinations (and subsequent dreams) of. Dark hair so long it swept past her hips, let loose and forming curls eerily reminiscent of waves. Skin like coral, white and flawless. Eyes sifting between shades of sea green and ocean blue. A dress which technically covered everything, but managed to look enticing nonetheless._

_Paraphrased, the speaker was a Nereid._

_The person she was speaking to could have been her brother. Perched as she was, nonchalantly on a cluster of rocks with too many jagged points and no real land in sight. Coolly appraising the unruly ocean around them, not moving a single muscle as the spray hit him on the face with considerable force._

"_Oh yes?" He asked. "and why's that?"_

_The Nereid waved an elegant hand into a representation of frustration._

"_The mortals! You're obsessed with them! You visit that…__beach__" her voice curled in contempt at the thought of land "almost everyday! And for no real reason, either."_

_The man stared at the sea speculatively._

"_I flirt." He observed._

_The Nereid rolled her eyes. Some uppity mermaid had picked the gesture up from some horrible sailing contraption,(the things kept sinking!) and she'd managed to spread it all around Atlantis. Something of an epidemic._

"_I know you flirt. I've known you for centuries. Trust me, I've learnt a lot about your sexual habits."_

"_Think of it as entertainment. You rescue sinking sailors."_

"_Only because it's tradition." The Nereid muttered. "I couldn't care less. I'd much rather be back home eating some decent food. Mortals make things so bland. No salt at all."_

_The man smiled. Ocean spirits never understood the lure of the land. Not that there was ever a contest between it and the sea, but it did have charms. And he said as much._

_The Nereid snorted. (This gesture had spread to the land after having originated in the sea. The exact pathway was unknown.)_

"_Tell me one interesting thing." she challenged him ."With a reason."_

"_Well, there was this woman…"_

"_Short skirts don't count as a reason."_

"_She was wearing jeans. This is something entirely different…" _

* * *

_Drip._

Sally winced and rolled over.

_Creeeak. Double drip._

She opened her eyes. So maybe this wasn't working. Sleep was hard enough to come by without unknown water sources adding to the concerto. Maybe she could make a symphony out of this. _Cabin by the Sea. Sallys' First. _Just that she had no idea how to write music.

_Drippety dripetty drip._

She gave up and went back to the problem she'd been working on. It was basically a photograph stuck into her diary. It wasn't even a very interesting photograph, just something she had amateurishly taken (with a friends' camera, naturally) in the spur of the moment one afternoon in Brooklyn. It showed a too-tall man with a crooked smile. It also showed two eyes on the man. While she took the photograph, she'd been positive the man had a single eye. In the middle of his forehead.

Conclusive proof of her insanity. She thought, resigned. But people never really gave into that kind of scenario without a struggle. So here she was, scouring the photograph again and again. Begging to have missed something the first twenty times around.

_Drreeep._

The one eye thing wasn't even the worst of it. She'd seen fire horses around the Intrepid. She'd seen Santas' sleigh (in October), women with bloodstained teeth, dogs the size of small cars, a bay baby centaur, a New York beggar with electricity crackling around him, something which looked like the minotaur, a man with a trident…

Sally glared at the walls, suddenly angry. She didn't deserve any of this. She could never remember actually hurting anybody. Heck, she couldn't remember raising her voice at anybody. She didn't deserve to be an orphan. She didn't deserve to have her Uncle die out on her. She didn't deserve to go crazy.

It was just so bloody unfair!

She stomped out of the cabin, (_creak_) unused to the invasive nature of anger. Unused to any anger, period. Then she saw the last coherent contemplation she had before the anger invaded. The man who'd carried the trident. He was standing on the beach shores, looking resplendently handsome in the moonlight and seaspray. With him was an equally resplendent woman. The kind of people who're born with everything they'd ever need. You could tell that easily, from the haughty way they carried themselves, and from the patronizing smiles on their faces.

Some part of her flushed. So tweety bird pyjamas weren't the kind of thing any twenty something with a life would wear. But the part which flushed was completely overshadowed by the part which was screaming for murder of whoever was born lucky. Which was why her diary left her hand, swung in a perfect arch, and hit the man on the forehead.

The part which flushed screamed. The insanely angry part turned on her heel and stomped back to the cabin, grimly satisfied by the stupefied look on the womans' face.

* * *

**Authors' Note:** Please point out and disrepencies or nonsensicalness to the author. She's starved for conversation and will only be too happy to get back to you.


	3. Beachcombing

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Beachcombing

_(the one with Jorge and the lifeguard)_

* * *

"All right." Sally told herself feverishly. "Just keep looking. It's sort of hard to actually miss the guy…"

But of course, that was what was happening. She'd been combing the beach for him since eight in the morning. She'd honestly have started two hours earlier, except that she figured it would be hard to find _anyone_ then.

Waking up in the morning had been a somewhat surreal experience, starting off with a strange dream which involved her throwing things. She'd then dragged herself out and been confronted by an ocean having a bad day. Salty spray had managed to fall on her somehow, despite her being meters away from the shoreline. She'd went back to the cabin with a vague idea of recording the experience, failed to find her journal even after a very through search, and had subsequently realized with a jolt that her strange dream had not really been a dream after all.

"Excuse me, miss?" One of the lifeguards ventured, after she'd passed by him the third time. "Are you lost?"

What had followed was ritualistic groaning and pounding of the head on the walls (Lightly. The cabin, as mentioned before, was not very keen on being sturdy.) and fervent wishes for the earth to open and swallow her up. None of it actually led to anything, so Sally decided to go find the man and apologize to him. Fervently.

"Miss?"

"Oh. Sorry." Sally blinked. "I'm looking for someone, actually. Umm…tall, dark, handsome-"

The lifeguard scowled very slightly. (He was blonde, with a somewhat large nose he had complexes about.) Uncle Pat was right. There was absolutely no point in being decent to anyone. Even the girls who _looked_ like they were nice.

"Try the classifieds." He told her snippily.

"What? Wait! I didn't mean that-" Sally started, but he'd already walked off to some other girl who looked clueless. There wasn't really a shortage of those.

Sally took a deep breath. This was getting her nowhere. She needed a workable description of the man, and she needed to ask someone who had a chance of knowing where he was. Simple enough.

Except that the "tall, dark, handsome" part was pretty much all she'd noticed. The rest of her attention had been occupied by tridents and flying journals.

The lifeguard streamed by, yelling something. It looked like a storm was on the way. Sally shivered in the wind and decided to head to the pier; because obviously there was no way a surfer would risk surfing in this sort of weather.

* * *

"Hey Jorge." She said glumly, twenty minutes later. The fisherman grunted and held out his hand for the coffee.

Sally liked Jorge. He was maybe around eighty, with most of his facial hair located in his ears, not counting the stubble on his chin. He was also unsociable, monosyllabic and addicted to caffeine. She'd literally stumbled onto him on her first day at Montauk, and had then taken him to the café and bought him coffee. To Jorge, this had been the equivalent of a couple of tons of gold with the crown jewels thrown in for free, which was why she was staying in his cabin for an unbelievably low price.

She sat down next to him on the flimsy little wooden dock, watching his line bob up and down for a while. Jorge finally spoke up.

"'S 'rong?"

Sally sighed. "I threw a book at a complete stranger."

" Prob'ly desherved it." (A few of Jorges' molars were gone, this mangled his sibilants.)

"No, he didn't." Sally said. "I was just in a mood. And it hit his head."

Jorge shrugged, indicating he didn't really care and she should find something else to do. Possibly buy more coffee.

"I feel so rotten." Sally mumbled. "He didn't do anything. And not to be biased, but he was cute…and I can't even find him now."

Jorge didn't bother with physical movements. Looked like his coffee was rationed.

"You wouldn't happen to know him?" Sally asked. "He really stands out. Very tall, has this sort of…aura around him, like he's been near the sea all his life. He just seems to _fit._"

Jorge paused. "Dark 'air?" He asked.

Sally nodded.

Jorge paused again, then slowly reeled in his rod. He checked the end carefully for damages, then stared out to the sea, which looked like it was boiling.

"Shud be near them rocksh." He told her. "Besht find 'im soon, or run away to Kanshash."

Sally stared. This was slightly stranger than Jorge usually got.

"An' shay off the shea." He added, as an afterthought.

* * *

**End Note****: **As far as chapters go, this one isn't something I'm too happy about. But I hit a logical dead end after the last chapter, having proceeded as usual, with a helpless little whisper of a plot. (The dead end being something along the lines of why Sally isn't a tuna at this point.)…so yeah. Sorry.


	4. Margarita

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Margarita

_(the one with two-way conversation)_

* * *

It took her three hours to find him.

By the time one of those three hours had passed, Sally was soaking wet and miserable, even more so than she was in the morning. A lesser person would have sworn the sea was being vindictive, and that most of the said vindictiveness was directed at her. Sally was used to purely coincidental bad luck, however, and didn't really think much of it. She was more worried about dealing with the problems she had contributed to personally.

"Hello?" She said hesitantly. The man was seated on a set of jagged rocks half sunk in the water and didn't appear to hear her. She repeated the word thrice with increasing volume. Still nothing.

The rocks stretched from the shore (And not the soft-sand variety of shore, either.) to nearly ten meters into the sea. They were, as mentioned before, jagged. And partially submerged. Not the kind of place most tourist tended to hang out around. He was on the far edge, legs dangling over one of the steeper stones.

A wave dashed into bits on one of the rocks nearer to her. Sally winced when the salt water hit her legs, but was wet enough now not to worry too much about it. Calling up on a little bit of courage, she stepped onto the nearest half submerged rock.

The sea took particular pleasure in drenching her bottom half.

She reached the man after more than five minutes (at least) of precarious flailing and violent drenching. He didn't look impressed. In fact, he didn't even bother to look at her.

"Umm…" She was more than a little envious of how he wasn't soaked. "Hello."

The silent treatment, naturally. She couldn't say she was surprised.

"Remember me?" she continued anyway, "I sort of threw a book at you yesterday?"

He finally spoke. "Your point?"

His voice threw her a little. Something about how it managed to blend in with the crashes and roars of the ocean. Like one part of many, a soloist amidst a full-fledged orchestra.

She realized she'd spaced out. This made her recover.

"I'm…really sorry." She said, swallowing. She closed her eyes and plunged on. "Really. I don't know what came over me, it's just that… I've had a lot to deal with and I'm having these hallucinations and then uncle Edward died and I can't afford college and I have to find a job and then the trident and the photo and I got freaked out and-"

She risked opening her eyes. The man was giving her a look.

"And I'm really sorry." She finished lamely, feeling a little more than slightly foolish. "I mean it. If there's _anything_ I can do to make it up to you. Anything at all."

He didn't react, not really. The look was replaced by an impassive face. He could have been anything from mildly amused to somewhat annoyed. Then again, he could have been thinking about dinner. The waves, having shown a stubborn knack for terrible timing, suddenly grew calmer; and Sally was stuck in one of those uncomfortable silences.

"I could buy you a drink?" She suggested tentatively. (Hey, it'd worked with Jorge.)

A pause.

"But of course." He said.

* * *

She followed him (he'd managed to get past the rocks before her, somehow not getting wet in the process) into a bar some way off from the rocks. It was, she noticed with dismay, one of the high-profile kind. The waiters had uniforms, the few customers had on suits or diamonds, or both. The lighting was fixed to give an eleven o' clock atmosphere at one in the afternoon.

And she was here; damp, in jeans and a sweatshirt, with a guy who had on khaki shorts, flip-flops and a bright green beach shirt. Utterly inconspicuous.

Sally kept her head down and followed the man to one of the booths. A waiter approached them instantly.

"The usual, sir?" He asked. Sally couldn't detect any trace of sarcasm in his tone, despite how _he_ was the one in a tux-like thing.

The man tilted his head. The waiter took that as a yes.

"And you, ma'm?" He asked her. Definitely a trace of sarcasm here.

"Nothing, thank you." Sally said. She'd be lucky to be able to pay for _one_ drink.

The waiter shrugged, and disappeared. Sally spent the next couple of minutes glancing around. The man didn't seem too interested in talking, which was probably good. The only thing she could process at this time was estimates of how many dishes she'd have to wash if she turned out not to have enough money. Or maybe they didn't accept that sort of payment here, how would she know?

The waiter returned with something orange in an expensive-looking glass, depositing it on the table with a flourish. Sally stared. There were a lot of citrus colours swirling around the glass. Not an image she'd associated with alcohol. There were drinks like these?

"It's a Margarita." The man supplied, taking a sip. "Tequila and fruit juice."

"Oh." She said intelligently. She'd never covered anything of the sort. Scotch, champagne, wine, yeah. _Tequila?_ What _was_ that? And _fruit juice?_ In _alcohol?_

Probably a good thing she didn't get into college. She knew way too little to be a writer.

"Do you come here often?" she found herself asking. This wasn't how it had been with Jorge. Jorge had had his coffee, and she'd been promoted to the post of long-lost daughter. There hadn't been any tequila involvement. Or waiters in tuxes.

"When I want a drink." He said. Away from the sea, his voice had tuned down to a fairly normal baritone. "And you?"

"I…don't drink." She blushed.

"Can't, or won't?" he enquired.

"I'm not sure." She changed topics uncomfortably. "I'm really sorry about the book."

"So you've said." He acknowledged. "Anything else?"

The only thought popping up in her mind was the trident. Needless to say, she squashed it down.

"You said something about hallucinations." he said. "Would you care to explain?"

"I…umm…I hallucinate." There was absolutely no way of breaking this in lightly. "It's been going on for a while. I keep seeing things. Like…well, they're not very pleasant, usually. More like monstrous. And then yesterday I…hallucinated about your trident being a surfboard. I mean, your surfboard being a trident, and…" her voice trailed off. She took a deep breath to steady herself.

"And I panicked. I thought I was going crazy. I know I probably am. And you were the first person I saw so…"She winced. "I swear it was temporary insanity."

"I see."

"I'm sorry." She repeated, just in case he'd missed it the first ten times.

"Consider yourself forgiven." He said, finishing off the Margarita, and winking. "I never could resist a pretty face."

Before Sally could figure out how to respond to that, he casually dealt out a second sledgehammer.

"And incidently," he added, "Those of us who look human are often the most dangerous."

He grinned at her expression and walked away from the booth. Sally only woke up when she saw the bill.

For_ Fruit Juice?_

**

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Authors' Note:

Longest chapter to date, over one thousand words in the story alone. I would hug everyone who reviewed, especially (but not only) the ones who reviewed all three chapters, except that I don't generally hug. And the thing with physical contact not yet being possible over the net. And the thing with the invasion of privacy. But I love you all anyway.

Any complaints/comments on the characterization (or anything else) can be conveyed to the author by means of reviews. I'm particular to the comments on the characterization, though; as I'm a little confused on that point.

On a side note, I have never actually seen a margarita. I know tequila is a type of alcohol, and that a margarita does contain it and fruit juice. I know this because I -somewhat hastily- googled it up. But there's a lot of room for mistakes. Once I get a proper plot, I'll look for any disrepancies.


	5. Names

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**Names**

_(the one where Poseidon reads)_

* * *

_A moonlit sky shone weakly on the rocks. This night, they were again occupied; the man sat on them as he leafed through a book. It had obviously seen better days, and now had yellowish pages, corroded sides and split binding. But still, he was clearly absorbed in it._

_Water churned a few feet south of his feet, midnight blue fading to silvery white as the Nereid emerged, her face apprehensive. The expression quickly faded to incredulence._

"_Are you reading?"_

_The man spared her a brief glance before going back to the book._

"_You are, aren't you? How long has it been since you actually did that?" The Nereid moved closer, her curiosity piqued. "What is it?"_

"_A diary, I suppose." The man murmured. "A record of feelings and incidents, interrupted occasionally by notes and stories." He shrugged. "A writers' notebook, then."_

_The Nereid took a few seconds to comprehend things. _

"_You are reading a writers' notebook."_

"_That's what I said, yes." He nodded, turning a page. "Mmm…that sounds suspiciously like Melvin."_

"_Melvin."_

"_One of my sons, a cyclops." He clarified. "He moved to Brooklyn a while ago. Apparently he spends his time leering at and scaring young women."_

"_It must be hereditary." The Nereid mumbled._

_Apparently, the man missed the comment._

"_Cyclopes usually grow up spoilt." The man shook his head sadly. "Look at Polyphemus. If anything, he's become worse since the Odessyus episode. He sulked for decades when he found out he survived. Told me I was a bad parent."_

"_Really?__"_

"_Don't think I don't notice the sarcasm. And I'm going to raise one right next time."_

"_A Cyclops? How are you going to do that?"_

_He considered it._

"_I have no idea. Perhaps something will come up."_

"_Of course." The Nereid said, not very hopefully. "And have you killed the woman yet?"_

"_I'm sorry?"_

"_Killed her, turned her into a sardine. Pretty much the same thing. You seem to be in a very good mood, so I'm assuming she's in some sharks' stomach at this point." _

"_I have not killed her. Or turned her into something else, it would be a waste."_

"_Because she's pretty?"_

"_Partly. But she's also nice, maybe too nice. I think throwing this at me was the first act of violence she ever committed."_

"_That's __her__ book?"_

"_Yes."_

_The Nereid frowned. _

"_You seem younger. Your body, that is. It can't be much more than a human twenty. I've seen this before, Sidon. Can I remind you that you are under oath?"_

"_I am aware of that. I've kept it for forty-seven years, forty-eight. That happens to be a long time."_

"_Only in mortal terms."_

"_The oath centers around mortals. And besides, I don't think it would matter anymore. My dear brother was acting a little shifty at the solstice a few years ago. And if I know him…"_

"_An unconfirmed suspicion exempts you from your oath?"_

"_I didn't say that. I was just pointing out the possibilities."_

"_Then I am too. I've known you for millennia, I know how you work. Occasionally." _

"_I know my duties. Neither am I inclined to hasten the end of the world."_

"_For the girls' sake, I hope you speak the truth."_

* * *

Sally was having a bad time of it, but she kept her temper. Look where her last outburst had got her, minus considerable savings and about six months' worth of works.

Three days without the love of her life. Everytime she thought of the amount of work she'd put into that book, she wanted to curl up in a corner and weep.

But then, there was the slightest possibility that she wasn't insane after all.

_Those of us who appear human are often the most dangerous._

She wished the remark hadn't been so cryptic; he could easily have been kidding with her, or making poetic conversation. But the alternative possibility…

She shook her head. Facts; the man was incredibly handsome and hung around an equally stunning woman. He seemed to have an inability for getting wet, he _fit_ in with ocean (there was no other word for it) and had been (assuming she wasn't insane) spotted carrying a trident once. So, if he wasn't human, then he was probably some sort of ocean spirit.

Dear god, she should try listening to herself sometimes.

But as crazy as it seemed, it made sense, logically. Providing you suspended insignificant little things like common sense.

If only she could see him again, just to question him.

Sally stretched out again, glancing back at the cabin. It looked decidedly uninviting. The sea at twilight was a pleasanter prospect, now that it was calm weather again.

She saw the woman as soon as she looked back, only a few meters in front of her. Hair streaming in the breeze, a diaphanous gown clinging to her perfect curves. She was looking directly at Sally, her face tilted as if contemplating her

Sally scrambled back, startled by the suddenness of it all. She hadn't been there a moment ago, how on earth did someone appear out of thin air like that?

_Not thin air, water._ Some part of her said. _Ocean spirit, remember?_

Incredibly, everything she saw made perfect sense at that point. It helped that the woman walked on the water, and was perfectly dry from head to toe as she stood in front of her, the ocean lapping at the feet of her gown.

_I could be dreaming._ She suggested to herself.

_Somehow, I don't think you are._

"Who are you?" Sally was happy to note her voice was steady.

"I'm a Nereid." The woman said. "A sprit of the ocean."

"You're real."

"Of course." She smiled wanly. "You see what is, unlike most of your kind."

Sally didn't answer, preferring to stare. Up close, the womans' beauty was even more evident. Long lashes emphasized ocean-hued eyes and perfectly high cheekbones. Tendrils of hair fell loose around a clasp reminiscent of a lobsters' pincers.

"You're pretty." The woman said, startling her.

Sally blinked. Coming from someone with a face like that, the comment would have made her want to laugh; but the sincerity in her voice was evident.

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment, more of a death sentence. If you were ugly, he wouldn't have spared you a second glace." She paused, considering. "Well, all right. I suppose it would be possible, it happened with that gorgon. But even she was pretty in the beginning."

"Uh…"

"I'm talking about _him._ 'Sidon." The Nereid sighed. "The man you threw a book at."

"Oh. Is he a Nereid too?"

"What?"

"I mean, the male equivalent." Sally said. "Nereids are part of Greek Mythology, aren't they? I'm not very well-versed there. It's been a while since I read mythology." In a desperate attempt to stray her mind away from the hallucinations, she added silently. Not that it worked.

"There is no male equivalent for a Nereid."

"I see. I promise to look it up." Sally hesitated. "He just seemed like an ocean spirit."

"I suppose he is an equivalent." The Nereid was smiling now. "You really do not know Greek Mythology?"

"I'm not an expert. I know the basics; Heracles, Odessyus. Athena, Apollo, Zeu-"

"Stop." The Nereid said, glancing at the sky. "Names have power. You will do well not to use them."

Sally glanced up with her, inordinately shivering.

"Are you telling me they exist?"

"For the immortals, existence is a function of belief."

Sally stopped shivering. That meant they probably didn't, nobody had worshipped the Greek gods for centuries. Just as well; from what she'd read, the gods seemed more like a bunch of spoilt brats than anything else. Beings of awesome power who threw destructive tantrums whenever they didn't get what they wanted. Add in curses, natural disasters, wars and rapes, and you pretty much had what was on their agenda.

Sally looked back at the Nereid, who was contemplating her again.

"You're not impressed."

"If you have power, you should know how to use it." Sally said. "They have duties, as gods."

"Liberated thinking." The Nereid looked amused. "I have a lot to thank it for. In ancient Greece, people did not speak ill of the gods, come what may. Not if they wanted to live, that was."

"Exactly." Sally said.

This time, the Nereid laughed outright. Sally couldn't see why, but she supposed ocean spirits had their private jokes.

"You might need to be a little more careful about voicing your opinions."

"I guess." Sally had a feeling she missed something.

"Oh, you'll know what I mean. Just give it some time." The Nereid glanced back at the ocean.

She shifted, and Sally realized with a start that she was leaving. Just like that; no goodbyes, no notice. After she had reassured her of her sanity…

"Do you have a name?" She blurted out.

"Names have power." The Nereid said again. "And does it really matter? I doubt we will see each other again."

"Maybe, but- it means a lot, you telling me all this." Sally smiled wryly. "I thought I was going crazy, and well…he didn't help much with a cryptic comment. You were invaluble. I'd like to know your name, at least."

"Do you?" The Nereid said. "You might regret it with time."

"I don't think so."

The Nereid paused.

"My real name is a mouthful, but you can call me Trite. Many do." She turned back to the ocean. "May the fates smile on you, Sally Jackson."

Ocean sprits, Sally decided later, always knew more than they let on.

* * *

**End Note:** For those of you who are apopleptic with astonishment; let me assure you; yes, that was chapter five of The Monauk Affair. No, you were not hallucinating.

My thanks to pocroyo, whose review (for a different fic) had me off my lazy butt writing this chapter. I so owe you one.

And if anyone would like to see the next chapter up before nine months, please suggest something; charachter names, OCs, story modifications, fluff scenes; whatever. I probably won't follow it, but it'll get me writing a bit more.

Another acknowledgement; the Nereid was originally conceived as a random charachter, but I decided by this chapter that she was too flippant with poseidon to be anyone other than Amphitrite. I have 1m4n to thank for this. And to anyone who doesn't know who Amphitrite is, look it up. :p

And I'm done. Throw to me your thoughts, fellow earthlings.

Two thousand words? Holy Poseidon.

**Submitted 01/03/2009, near 1900 hours, IST **


	6. Filler

**_Filler_**

_(In which the author desperately churns out what is hopefully a hopefully bridging chapter)_

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"Are you a Nereid?" was probably not what she should have said, but her mouth had this habit of running out of sight of her brain sometimes.

He turned from where he was facing the sea to face her instead, a mildly suspicious look on his face.

"The male equivalent," she offered an apology, "can I sit here?"

"By all means," he told her.

Sally let out a silent whoop of triumph. It was rare enough for her to find something nonhuman which looked like it understood English, let alone one who could speak. She was determined to wheedle as much out of him as she could before going back to her hometown city of cyclopses and other assorted nasties. And the man wasn't quite as unnerving as the woman had been; she figured it had something to do with the coconut-splattered shirt and bright blue flip-flops. Also, a fisherman's hat was a lot less intimidating than live lobster pincers attached to the hair.

He had his back to her again, and was sitting on the dock fishing, of all things. Why would an ocean spirit fish?

She added it to her mental list of questions, and seated herself next to him.

"Do you mind if I ask you some questions?" she asked, a little uncertainly. Sure he had seemed nice the other day, but she'd hit him on the head with a leather bound book.

He shrugged, "No."

"Oh. Good. I just wanted to clear up a few-" she stopped abruptly, staring at the man. She practically felt the blood drain off her face.

He raised an eyebrow curiously, smiling.

"How-" Sally stammered, "you're- young. I mean, younger than before. How?"

"I am an immortal; age is immaterial to me. And I can appear however I wish to," he glanced at the water, "poor fishing today."

Sally couldn't believe he'd followed up that remark with that.

"You're immortal?" her voice came out just slightly squeaky.

His smile took on a distinctively supercilious tone. Sally thought of being snarky in return, but it really wasn't in her nature. She'd much rather be asking questions, and getting less than cryptic answers.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," she admitted, "are you an ocean spirit?"

"Something like-"

She interrupted him.

"I'm sorry, but could you please not give any more cryptic answers? My head is still aching from the last set."

He'd looked disconcerted at being interrupted. She had a feeling that didn't happen to him often. It made sense, really. A person who went around gleefully projecting an aura of power and doing freaky things like change his age probably didn't get argued at much.

"As you wish," he said, "what do you want to know?"

The problem with mental lists, they tended to go out of virtual existence the moment they were required to be presented to reality. Besides, the immortal thing had thrown her a little. A theoretically simple concept, but if you just thought about it; never dying. Having all the time in the world to see whatever it had to offer, to see what changes had taken place in it. To remember it all. To absorb the feelings of different periods in time…

A writer's dream, really.

"Sally?"

His use of her name threw her a bit. For one thing, it had been a while since someone so obviously masculine had said her name. For another, she'd never told it to him. Not that it seemed to matter much, these days.

"How did you know my name?"

"I make it a point to know something about every pretty woman passing through my domain."

She stared at him, mouth slightly open. Was the man-thing- flirting with her? Nah, she was just reading too much into a casual compliment-

"Especially ones with such eyes. Your eyes are like the sea, capricious in their colour."

Then again. Oh god, she was being flirted with by an ocean spirit. How on earth was she supposed to react?

He looked at her flabbergasted face, sighed and muttered what she swore was 'this is going to take time.' Then he got up, adjusted his hat and pulled her to her feet like she weighed about a kilo.

"A coffee? Seeing as how you do not drink alcohol? My treat."

The phrase was voiced as a question, but it felt more like an order. An order which was not to be argued with. And besides, she was newly broke as well as jobless. Where was the harm in it?

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**Author's Notes: **As of now, this story is officially in a continuity rut. I'm putting this up purely because this is my third try on chapter six, and any more will ahve me beating my head against the wall. Also because the other two premises were nothing like this or each other.

The continued problems being; Poseidon's an autocratic bastard, Jorge refuses to stick to a role, Trite is becoming increasingly bitchy, and Sally's showing all the queenliness of a doormat.

Ugh. I hate it when they refuse to move the way you want them to.


End file.
